humor

Hey you guys! Forgive the incoherence of this entry. But, you guys, you guys, this should be fun. I have consumed enough champagne for this to be fun. Why? I’ll tell you why–and I’m pretty sure this will be a bad idea in the a.m.–because I am going to live blog He-Man.

The Big Man and I have decided to binge watch He-Man on this last night of 2015. It just seemed appropriate.

I feel like Beastman drinks a lot of PBR. Like, a LOT.

Does the Sorceress channel Jennifer Tilly? Or is it the other way around?

Ram-man. Tee-hee. Sorry, I will never be mature enough to handle that.

Why does this bird-lady have such big breasts? And not the delicious fried kind.

All the villains on this show speak in the third person at some point. CREEEPY. Vida doesn’t like it.

Panthor is better than Battlecat. There. I said it. We shall not speak of Cringer. I hate that cat’s guts. I KNOW it’s the same cat. Shut up.

YEEEAAHHH!!

He-man’s…vest, question mark?

Does that big-bo0bed bird have a navel? Do birds have navels? (I actually googled this. They do not.)

No one sells He-man’s fur speedo-moccasin combo. Just that I’d menion that in case someone wants to get on it.

The Big Man just mentioned Quaaludes. I’m….I’m not going down that road.

Ram-Man…hee-hee, again.

I might be Evil-Lyn. Which is good, since I’ve mentioned dating Skeletor.

I don’t care for Man-at-Arms. There, I said it.

I know Prince Adam is grown, but I feel like someone should have called CPS on Prince Adam’s parents a long time ago. Like, they can’t even recognize their own kid in a metal vest and moccasins. Quaaludes?

He-Man’s tan. Orange is the new Eternia, amirite?

I just interrupted typing this to make sure my husband didn’t put Russell Brand on the TeeVee. NO RUSSELL BRAND. I don’t find him offensive, just unfunny. (The Destroyer just asked, “Dad, what’s Russell Brand? To which the Big Man replied, “Nothing you want to deal with.”)

I feel like Tila eats a lot of corn. Without butter and salt. And not in popped form. Who does that?

I’m going to get a fur underwear-moccasin boot-combo IF IT KILLS ME.

And on that note, good night everybody and see you in 2016! Which for me is in like, 3 hours of a champagne induced haze. (Champagne so bad it’s actually Cham-pag-in. Thanks, Zap Branningan.)

So the pie thing shockingly well. I didn’t burn the house down, and the pie was not only edible, it was good. Take that, um…cooking, I guess? Anyway, other than that, I haven’t really been up to much. Unlike everyone else I know.

I mean, so many of the people around me have been running around like chickens with their heads cut off. (I have never seen that phrase in print before, it’s kind of gross, huh?) I’ve avoided the pressure because of one thing: I’m really good at making excuses. Like, really good. So good, in fact, that I’m going to share my list with you.

“I had Taco Bell today.” This is a good one, because no one will question you after that, for a couple of reasons: 1) They absolutely DO NOT want to hear what happened after that, and 2) every person in America and probably Germany has a Taco Bell story. (My husband has a Taco Bell legend.) They already know what’s up. However, you can only use this one once every few weeks, otherwise people will think you’re either a masochist or just plain stupid

“Not unless you want to help me move.” It’s surprising how well this one works, considering people don’t generally move that often. It’s one of those things that people don’t even want to risk walking into. I personally used this one three weekends in a row a while back, and it worked every. Single. Time. Even though I haven’t moved in eight years.

“I don’t have a babysitter.” This one has a limited life span, since once your oldest hits the teen years it becomes assumed that you have a built in baby-sitter. I have the great fortune of having the Destroyer as my oldest, and everyone know that ain’t nobody trying to leave him in a house alone with, well, furniture and dishes and windows and such. However, if your kids fall in the 1-7 age range, you’re golden. Especially if you have more than two. It also helps if you happen to have the spawn of the Devil himself. Or if your daughter may be a sociopath.

Seriously, no one wanted to baby sit. Ever.

“I’m broke.” Cause nobody wants to pay for you. Or maybe it’s just me-no one wants to pay for me. Not even for the sheer pleasure of my presence. Just kidding, I have like, three friends, and one of them is married to me and he has no choice but to pay. I also have no job.

“I don’t feel like it.” Okay, so be careful with this one. It’s a classic, but keep this in mind: This one is for the professional lazybones ONLY. You have to be soooo lazy that you’re not even up to inventing a legitimate excuse. Or, in my case, so lazy that you probably have a real reason for your inability to do something and you’re not even up to sharing THAT. Also, the “I don’t feel like it” requires real conviction–you must not be talked into feeling like it. It doesn’t matter what “it” is, you have already professed your feelings or lack thereof and THAT IS THE END. FINITO. The “I don’t feel like it” must be resistant to tears, begging, anger, and bribery. That’s right, you don’t even feel like taking something you want to do something you don’t. THAT, my friends, is excusery (not a word? It is now) at it’s finest.

There you go. You are very welcome, because I have saved you from drudgery and irritation. Did I miss any?

Hey, you guys! I’m sitting procrastinating because I’m supposed to go bake a pie and I have NEVER baked a pie. The only reason I’m doing this is because my husband happened to mention that he had never had sweet potato pie. My initial reaction was, “Of course not. You’ve always had pecan because you’re melanin deficient. ” Ignorant, I know. But since I live where I live, most of the white families I’ve met do pecan, most of the Black families, sweet potato. Tomato, tomahto.

But then two things happened. One, I realized that, blonde though my hubby may be, he’s been married to a Black woman with a Black family for almost twelve years. Two, my son also said he never had tasted said pie. Conclusion: I am a failure.

So I wildly overreacted which ended with a declaration that I’m going to make this pie. I’m sure hilarity will ensue that I will be compelled to tell ya’ll about later.

Anyhoo, I don’t know why I decided to spill those particular beans. I meant to tell you about how Kid Sensation cheated death. And, no not at the hands of Wondergirl. No. This time he took on the Big Man.

So we’ve all been cooped up here for the last few couple days together. Kid Sensation has been in front of a screen for the entire time. Like, only stopping for meals and potty breaks. Which would be fine if he was in college or building an online empire. However, he’s just looking up cartoon theme songs and offbeat British animation. (I don’t know.)

I know, I know–we’re terrible parents. I’m not gonna front though. It beats listening to him and Wondergirl fighting non-freaking-stop. I mean, it’s like living with Captain America and, well, Wondergirl. The other night, I didn’t hear anything for like, ten minutes and I was all, “Finally.” But then I realized that it was ten p.m. and they had just fallen asleep. Mid-fight.

All day, every day.

Yesterday, the Big Man figured that ol’ K.S. needed to get some fresh air. We live in the Pacific Northwest and it’s not raining. AKA: Get your butt outside.

Kid Sensation ignores the first missive, choosing the dangerous path of ignoring his dad. But this, you guys, this is not where things went left.

The Big Man repeats himself. He hates repeating himself even more than I do. Still, not in quite in Fatality country–just cruising the border. Not until Kid Sensation says, and I quote: “Okay, Okay. Be calm.”

I know you know what I’m talking about here. When you have repeatedly issued an order to your child and they want to act like you’re crazy and that your craziness isn’t their fault, it’s maddening. No, maddening isn’t right. It’s infuriating.

The Big Man turns beet-red. I know this description is overused, but he really was the exact shade of supermarket beets. All I heard was, “GET IN HERE! NOW!” It was so loud that at first I thought the Apocalypse had begun and I was going to be called into account for my bogus pie claims.

I immediately remove myself from the room. I am not trying to give eyewitness testimony. I remove myself from the room, and immediately begin fabricating plausible reasons for Kid Sensation’s disappearance. “Okay, we’re poor, so boarding school is out. Living with Grandma? No, she lives half a mile from here. Think, Vida, think!”

Next thing I know, I’m witnessing the single most tearful shoe putting on ever. He even managed to have one lonely tear stop mid-cheek on both sides of his face. It was so, so, pitiful, you guys. But he brought it on himself.

I still don’t know which particular boom was lowered that day. I’m a coward, so I’m afraid to ask. I’m just glad Kid Sensation is alive and well. And fighting with Wondergirl as we speak.

So um, I was thinking about posting guys who are actually dateable, as opposed to the people I deem undateable. However, undateable is much, MUCH more fun. Also, I am aware that two out of three of my kids will be undateable. I’m trying not to tell Mama Prime because I really want Wondergirl and Omega to make us rich get together. (BTW, Wondergirl fully expects to start her own salon and be able to hire her own janitors immediately. She was looking at me pointedly when she said this. I guess it depends on how much she pays. It better be in organs when I’m old and decrepit cause I figure I can use her organs more than she can. Evil people don’t actually use their hearts, since their blood is actually ice and oil and just slides through their veins.)

Prince Harry: I don’t know, but it seems like he would try to embarrass you at all the palace functions. Like, he would know you didn’t know anything about the cheese course, but would sit there while you asked for cheddar like an idiot. Knowing that all they had was Camembert and Brie. And then laugh and point with his grandma.

Darkseid: You would forever have in inferiority complex with this guy. And he’s clearly self-absorbed. Because he is constantly talking about how he is the one to bring order to the universe and how he should rule the universe. He would never, ever ask about your day. And he would insist on regaling you with his universe-domination schemes. Even though Superman shuts him down each and every time. He’s like that guy at work who swears he knows how he would change procedure, but management rips up his suggestion emails after printing them out for the sole purpose of passing them around and laughing uproariously at them. It’s like, “Listen, homebiscuit, all I want to know is if you liked Wu-Tang in high school. We can talk about universal domination after the third date.”

Also, I’m not trying to be racist here, but being death gray is kind of a turn-off.

Jeff Goldblum: Not that I think he’s a bad dude. It just seems like if he opened his eyes at night it would be like the cartoons where you can see the whites and pupils in the dark. Freee-kee.

Mariah Carey: Listen, she’s beautiful and ultra-talented. But all of her clothes are too tight. ALL of them. She is definitely Spanxed to death. Do you know how I treat people after I have had Spanx on for too long? Like Portlanders treat everyone else: condescending and cranky. And I only wear them on special occasions. Pretty sure that’s how Mariah is all the time. Plus, Nick Cannon is her ex. So there’s that.

Carmen Electra: Cause she used to be the business. Have you ever dated anyone who used to be the business? They. Are. The. Worst. They always want to remind you of those days when they were the business–and you barely cared then. Now they’re just boring.

He you guys! So I was not feeling well this week. You know, cause I sent the kids back to that petri dish they call school. Also I have been writing for other folks, and again I am too shy to share. I just straight up told Mama Prime I would direct her to my work and when I got home I cried because I don’t want her to know how awful my work really is. Yes, I said shy. Why are you surprised? Oh, because I am a butthead loudmouth on here? Yeah, well.

Anywhoo. Pop question: When everyone in the house is sick, who do you tend to first? A) Your oldest, B) the middle child who never gets enough attention, or C) the baby because he’s the baby? Haha, trick question—the answer is D) the Big Man. Because he is pathetic. Or pitiful. I can’t decide. Pathetiful? Yes. YES. No one copyright this until I feel like it.

Now. To my random thoughts.

I told the Destroyer that if he goes to a school dance, and a girl he’s dancing with dances anything like I do, he should call me immediately and get away from her as fast as he can. If a girl can booty roll and shake the way I could (and, *ahem* still can) I don’t want him anywhere NEAR her. #parentalhypocrisy

I finally gave away my hope jeans. You know those jeans you hold onto hoping you’ll lose weight back into them? Yeah, well I lost hope. Also, they are now out of style. I wish you well in your Goodwill endeavors, hope jeans.

The Destroyer, my son, who came from my own body, didn’t know how to spell Vegeta. Or Super Saiyan. I have failed him spectacularly. Don’t call CPS.

Yeah, Vegeta. That’s how I felt, too.

Remember how I said Skeletor was undateable? Well, I follow him on Twitter and he seems cool. Danzing is still undateable, though.

My grandma’s in town! This is awesome because she’s awesome.

I live in Vancouver, Washington. I thought it was cloudy today, but I think I’m wrong. I think it may be the haze of smug coming across the river from Portland. Yes, smug.

I was late taking Kid Sensation to school the other day. He was up in his room playing so quietly I forgot he was there. You guys, he was being so nice and quiet that I was validated as a parent. I mean, if I can forget you exist, you’re a pretty good kid, right? Please don’t call CPS.

I want to have a cooking show. But I can’t because I wouldn’t know how to cook without being interrupted. Or having to break up a fight. Or getting into a fight. Or putting out a small fire.

On second thought, my cooking show might be pretty good. Will you guys watch it?

Again, I admit I’m a terrible person. It’s kind of my running theme. And I’m passing it on to the next generation. Thank me later.

So I was talking to The Destroyer about a girl he likes. Liked. Here’s the deal: I try to instill in my children that looks aren’t everything. I try to tell them that what makes a person special is on the inside. Stay with me here.

This is how the conversation went:

“Hey, whatever happened to ____?” (At this stage, I’m not trying to remember their names.)

He shrugs. “She’s not my type.”

“What does that mean?”

Another shrug. So, I think, she’s tore up.

“Destroyer, everything can’t be looks. I mean, is she smart? Funny? Interesting?”

“She’s smart. I just don’t like her, mom. Leave it alone.” I wasn’t about to leave it alone. Me? Nerd extraordinaire? Raise a shallow kid? Not gonna happen. If he can’t see inner beauty, then he’s the same as all those shallow jerks that I went to school with. You know, the ones who couldn’t see my inner beauty.

“Listen, there’s a such thing as inner beauty. I mean—wait. Is that her?”

Don’t get mad, you guys. I really do want my son to be with a woman of substance. I just don’t want her to be tore-up ugly. And I don’t mean like a big nose or overweight or a limp. I mean looking like a Garbage Pail Kid.

Sweartogod, this is HannahMckaylaBrittneyEricaAleshaRenee

And I know there are parents out there who wouldn’t want their son- or daughter-in-law to be fat like me. I’ve decided not to be mad about that. (Especially since I know that my mother-in-law wanted her son to marry a pretty, petite, blonde. Which is the polar opposite of me and I decided not to be mad about that. Especially since I make the Big Man very happy. Also, I’m sexy-fat. So there’s that.)

The thing is, men get to be shallow about ALL KINDS OF THINGS. Like if a woman has hammer toes. So, I feel like I get to be shallow about some things. And this is one of them. I get to think that my smart, beautiful son is out of a particular girl’s league.

I happened to marry an attractive man. And I know that they’re my kids, but my kids are pretty darn good looking. And I would like to have good looking grandchildren.

I don’t worry about this too much with Wondergirl. She already has criteria in place for the man she wants to meet in 2026. (That’s the year she has projected, not me.) She actually said, “He has to be reasonably handsome. Not way fine, cause I’m not trying to fight over him. ” (This is a lie. She wants any excuse to fight.) “And rich,” she added. “He has to be rich.” Of course he does. How else would she fund her world-dictatorship campaign? (Omega Prime, I’m looking at you, kid.)

Look, I guess it boils down to this: If a dad can tell his son to date hot chicks, so can a mom. Also, I hope that she’s kinda dumb. That way, I can trick her into telling the truth about what her and my son have been up to.

Oh, and then, THEN, another girl had the nerve to tell the Destroyer that she didn’t want to talk to him because some kids said that his mother is crazy. WHAT?!? Only SOME kids think I’m crazy? Well, I must be losing my touch.

Hey, y’all! It has been a rough week, what with the first day of school and all. Trying to get these people together so they can get and education and get up out my house is rough, is what I’m saying.

Anyhoo, LeFou, I’m afraid I’ve been thinking (a dangerous pastime, I know). I am always sharing my random thoughts with you guys, but ever the crazy stuff I think about on a regular basis. So here are my confessions:

Wondergirl is in middle school. MIDDLE SCHOOL, you guys. So I cried when I dropped her off on the first day. I dropped the Destroyer off at the same time, but whatever.

I read the Huffington Post unironically. I am ashamed.

I used to laugh at my mother and now I am her. Kind of. Again, her house is clean.

I don’t like babies in general. There, I said it.

I secretly wish I could do the splits. I will never do anything to achieve this goal, though. I just wish there was some miracle do-the-splits cream. But I guess that would have to come after the miracle lose-75-pounds cream. Somebody get on this.

I think the Beygency is real. And out to get me. (It is real. It’s called the Beyhive and one time I said I thought Beyonce was dumb. Long story short, Beyoncé slander should be one of the reasons to go into witness protection.)

I got yelled at one time for referring to Bridget Moynahan as Tome Brady’s baby mama. Instead of saying “his son’s mother”. Apparently I was being disrespectful to someone who bores the mess out of me on three different channels in syndication. As if once a week isn’t enough. I get mad about it to this day. And she is his baby mama.

I get angry because I’m not Serena Williams. I also get angry because I’m not Venus. Or active.

I often think to myself, “If I were 5’7”, none of this would have happened.”

My husband’s never seen the original Star Wars trilogy. I am ashamed.

I think Ina Garten is trying to make me look bad. No one else. Just me.

So, the Destroyer went to the Prime house for a sleepover with Optimus. I fear that he got a taste of real mothering and is way disappointed in the mom-hand he was dealt. Of course he won’t tell me. But I still suspect. Not that this is an incentive for me to be a better mom in any way. Like I said, the hand he was dealt

I broke every light in my parent’s house trying to kill flies. True story. ( I HATE flies.) I regret nothing.

Killin em softly. With shattering glass.

Sometimes I make Kid Sensation look at me just because he has such pretty eyes. They look a little like anime.

Rocky V is on my TV right now. And I’m kinda watching it. I am ashamed. It is so terrible I think I just got botulism.

The first two seasons of Spongebob Squarepants changed my life.

The Big Man is capable of farts that wake me up out of REM sleep. Okay, so I guess that might be his secret, but I needed to tell someone.

I wear five-inch heels on a regular basis. And I walk extremely well in them. And then I am a cripple for like, three hours after I take them off.

I refuse, you hear me, REFUSE to stop wearing five-inch heels.

You guys, this Rocky movie is soooooo bad. And I’m still watching it. I’m sure the rap in it caused radiation poisoning. Even I remember jamming to at least one of the songs when I was a kid.

I may have more confessions. Can’t think of any right now, but you KNOW I’ll share when I do. Too bad for you.

Hey y’all. So it’s WELL into 2015 and I’m just now getting around to Omega Prime. Recently, I’ve been seeing a lot of the Prime Family (good times). Optimus comes over to train for football with The Destroyer, so I get to hang with Mama Prime and Omega.

This kid. I’m pretty sure he’s like, thirty, but his body still thinks he’s nine. He is so much his own person it’s frightening. And I know it’s frightening because I have one of those and she terrifies me. Because, seriously, what can you do with a kid you can’t brainwash into being the perfect human being you could never be? Oh well, guess that’s why you have extras. (Looking at you, Kid Sensation.)

Real talk, Omega Prime makes my day on a regular basis. He always, ALWAYS checks out the oldest and most obscure books in the library. Books that say stuff like, “One day people will even have computers in their homes,” and “Negro running back and hero O.J. Simpson”. And he thoroughly enjoys them without giving one fig what anyone thinks.

He brought this toy out in public:

INAPPROPRIATE.

The other day I asked him if he’s gotten his stuff for school yet. Now, most kids I know would give me a “not yet” or a “ My mom said we’re going this weekend.” Omega Prime looks me dead in the eye—while sitting right next to his mother, mind you—and says, “Nope. Nothin’.” And that was it. End of sentence, end of explanation. Like, “Nope. My parents obviously don’t care about my education OR the state of my clothing and quite frankly it was a bit classless of you to bring it up.” Welp, put me in my place, didn’t he? (Also, I happen to know the Primes care quite a bit about education. Mama Prime is a teacher, for goodness’ sake. She educates other people’s kids. On purpose. And her kids don’t look like they wandered in from a hobo camp. Again, looking at you, Kid Sensation.)

I’m pretty sure Omega’s mission in life is to make sure Optimus knows exactly what he thinks of everything he does and says. While I know he looks up to his big brother, I have to admit: I’ve never seen anyone shake their head at one person so much.

He knows how to raise his eyebrows with impeccable comedic timing, like a freaking Marx brother. And I doubt he even knows he’s doing it.

He said, and I quote, “They hate us cause they ain’t us.” And meant it.

So, I’ve done what any parent would do. I’ve conspired with Mama Prime to have Omega marry Wondergirl. That way I’ll have in-laws I like, gorgeous grandchildren, and get to benefit from their complete world domination. I fully expect them to send their respective mothers on luxury cruises wearing lots of diamonds. It’s the least they could do.

Hey folks! Not much going on here, which is why I jump on the interwebs to look at other people’s lives and judge them. (Don’t judge me.) I had a single friend over, and we talked about those people, but we talked about ourselves, as well. She made me very glad I will never have to date again. “But Vida,” you ask, “What if something happens to the Big Man?” Nope. Not even then. I am never letting anyone else do this love thing to me again. Never.

Since I never have to date again, I get to make fun of the whole scene. Aw, come on. It’ll be fun. It’s a list of guys I would never date. FUN, I said.

Skeletor: One thing Skeletor’s got in his favor is that he’s pretty ripped for a skeleton. Seriously, check out the quads on this guy. Also, he’s a homeowner and I like his house. And even though I’m not really a cat person, I feel like Panthor and I would get along okay. He also has this wicked bad chair made of bones and such. Which goes perfectly with the theme in my house of whatever-the-Destroyer-hasn’t wrecked-yet chic.

I don’t think that I would like his friends though, Beastman looks like he smells and sheds and I’m pretty sure Evil-Lyn would always be trying to break us up. Then there’s his obsession with ruling Eternia which means we’d always be dealing with He-Man, who’s smug and insufferable and makes his cat wear a helmet. Oh, and he has no face, soooo…no kissing. Deal-breaker.

I could work with this.

Danzig: Welp, he’s famous. He can sing. Everyone in America and probably Mexico knows the words to “Mother”. (Probably through karaoke, but still.) Maybe Canada, too, but I doubt it. He can get into a confrontation for you pretty much anywhere and he’ll totally win. Or get knocked out. Oh, and Misfits T-shirts are cool. Best of all, he was on Aqua Teen Hunger Force as himself.

But his name’s Glenn. GLENN. Name the last Glenn you liked. Or who wasn’t an undercover, if not overt, douchebag. I’ll wait. Nope, time’s up and you couldn’t think of one. Also, who gets punched in the face and tells people they “allowed” said puncher to do the punching? Someone named Glenn, that’s who. Guaranteed, if you went on a date with Danzig and then you decided it didn’t work, he’d tell everyone he “allowed” you to say he was a tool. And who does that? And why, for the love of Batman, won’t he get a haircut and stop dying it Sharpie black?

Wolverine: He’s good looking. He’s got great hair. He has superhuman healing abilities so then only I would have to have health insurance. Since I’m not a mutant, I’m not sure if we could both live at the Xavier Institute, but if we could that would be awesome.

Especially considering that, X-Men stuff aside, I’m pretty sure Wolverine is perpetually unemployed. I know he was a lumberjack in the movie, but that doesn’t count. Also, he has anger issues that directly correspond with adamantium claws appearing from his knuckles. That concerns me. Oh, and he’s like one inch taller than I am, and I am extremely heightist. And he’s Canadian, so he doesn’tknow the words to “Mother”.

Has there ever been the alterna-Flinstones? Like has there ever been the hot guy/ fat chick sitcom? Because, on the real Wilma Flintstone, Alice Kramden, Carrie Heffernan could have done waaaaay better. Confession: I think Kevin James is kinda hot. But it works against the formula because I’m also fat. So we’d be another Mike and Molly.

Why do all the shows when someone gets a house/cash/gifts/cash happen to everyone else? Where is the application for these shows? Why don’t I know about it? Is it a conspiracy to keep me poor? I think it is. But then, I’m pretty sure life is a conspiracy to keep me poor.

Why does Naomi Campbell still look better than me? Aside from the fact that she probably diets, exercises, and great genes. Oh, and a stylists. Not the point. The point is, I thought time was supposed to be the great equalizer. You lied, Time. YOU. LIED.

There’s this fly on the windowsill. I need to go kill—never mind it’s a wasp. Carry on, wasp, I clearly interrupted whatever you had going on with the window and I apologize.

I walk at the track to lose weight. (Not to be confused with “walking the track” which means prostitution. In which case I’d like to think that I’d have more money. ) Today a more athletic chick ran past me and told me “Good Job!” I guess I’m at the white belt level of fitness and the track is clearly her dojo, she figured I needed her encouragement so that I wouldn’t give up and pass out on the track. I showed her though. I waited until I got to Gretchen to pass out.

The wasp is still there.

I wish it had been this Wasp.

I know the entire Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles song. All of them. And I sang them with Kid Sensation in Fred Meyer. Quietly. I’m not a complete jerk.

I have convinced myself to get a fatkini. It’s. About. To Go. DOWN.

We are so football starved in this house, we are watching the Madden Demo Game. It’s Cowboys vs. Seahawks. And we are here commenting on it. I actually said, “Oh, so they just gon’ let Romo walk in the end zone?” Out loud. Pathetic.

I don’t know. I was feeling random today. Kick me some of your randomness. You know, if you’re feeling random, too.

OH WAIT!!! I forgot to tell you guys! I was buying wine and I got carded. (I’m pretty sure it’s mandatory.) Here’s how the conversation went:

Cashier Lady: “You have such pretty skin.”

Me: “Thanks.”

CL: “Black Women are so lucky. You’re lucky you’re Black.”

Me: *mumbles something and rushes out before ending up on the news*

So, you guys, did I handle this right? Supermom would have totally had some kind of extremely nuanced shade and tossed it out there like a wiffle ball. But, I’m no Supermom. Yet.